


Jawwwwwwn

by deltaSpositive



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-15 13:57:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4609320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltaSpositive/pseuds/deltaSpositive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets drunk. He likes calling John Jawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jawwwwwwn

John had been expecting the worst from the moment he saw the letters "MH" on his caller ID.

He put the speaker to his ear with trepidation, though not outwardly showing it, "Yes, Mycroft?"

"I am afraid tonight is his danger night. Grade 5. Our mother passed away this morning,"

"Oh, my... I... Are you alright yourself?"

John could almost imagine Mycroft rolling his eyes and waving his umbrella dismissively as he heard this. "Unlike my brother," he sounded a little annoyed and bored, "I have a safe... mean to deal with my rare emotional moments. Do take care of him John," and then the call was ended.

And so John found himself in the middle of going through Sherlock's socks when he heard the door to the living room creaked open.

It was too late for it to be Mrs. Hudson. If it was a client, he would have heard the bell go off first. Greg would call him before coming. And Mycroft usually just appeared on his chair when he came home.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, as he still had the whole wardrobe to go through. However, the creaking of floorboards was slowly approaching the door, and Sherlock had every right to order him out of his room. Once he was alone...

_"You must understand, John, that my brother, despite his appearance, has a very fragile heart. It was my fault that I failed to see it the year our father died."_

Pictures of Sherlock lying unconscious on the floor, white foam dribbling from the corner of the withering lips flashed through John's mind. Even if the pictures weren't real, John suddenly felt a punch to his chest, a squeezing sensation in his heart. _You are just overreacting_ , John thought to himself, _this is not going to happen_. Still, he couldn't stifle the fear in his heart when he thought of the unsearched compartments of the wardrobe. Cocaine, syringes, hidden in between the wooden boards or in the hem of his wool coat. John shuddered.

The door opened. Sherlock stopped in his tracks for a moment before stepping in. He cast a glance at John, noticing the opened drawer.

"I hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time," he said curtly, sounding absolutely calm and composed, just like normal.

Except it was not normal. John stood still at his position, not moving an inch, while observing the man who was now swiftly taking off his coat in a dramatic manner and striding to the bathroom in long, elegant steps. His face was calculating, cold, and showed no sign of remorse. But it was not the usual kind of coolness that emanated from the tall and slender body. It seemed forced, unnatural, an act he put up as his facade, hiding his feelings from others.

John was worried.

He knew Sherlock. He knew the more he wrapped himself in his cocoon, the more fragile he was. And right now, he was treading on thin ice. One false move, and Sherlock would be in grave danger. It was as though making a single step, breathing a bit too loudly, or even moving too abruptly would disrupt the intricate balance in the room.

So he dared not move until the man reappeared from the bathroom.

"John," the voice clipped, short and concise, not angry nor sad, but not showing any emotions either. However, the request was simple. He wanted John to leave the room.

John looked at the dark silhouette in the dimly lit room, not knowing what to do. He would have to leave, but every time he tried to make the move, the images of Sherlock, unconscious, would involuntarily float up to his mind again. It made him shiver.

He couldn't leave Sherlock alone, yet he also couldn't just stay here.

The two stood in the silence for a while, their faces only barely visible under the dimly lit light. Sherlock didn't move. He just watched John, silently, waiting for him to leave.

"I am going to make a cup of tea," John announced. He hoped it sound normal. Sherlock nodded, and John closed the door behind him quietly.

Once the door was closed, John, instead of heading towards the kitchen, quickly went to his room. He knelt down beside his bed and reached out his right hand, searching for an old glass bottle that had been hidden under his bed since he moved in. He had sworn never to touch it, yet he had never got the heart to throw it away. It sat there, year after year, waiting for the right moment to be consumed.

With some difficulty, John took the glass of Scotch out. The bottle was dusty, and John had to wipe it with his hands a few times before he could see through all those years of abandonment. It was a gift from Harry, given to him on his birthday many years ago, before she died from liver failure. It served to him as a reminder, not only of Harry, but also of the consequences of drinking. But he had a feeling, that after all these years, that after not seeing it for more than ten years now, that tonight would be the night. Tonight, the glass of Scotch would serve its purpose.

He didn't even bother to knock before he entered Sherlock's room. There would be no point of asking, as Sherlock would most likely ignore him, and he was not going to leave Sherlock alone for more than five minutes.

Sherlock was curled up at the end of the bed, sitting up straight, and looking at nothing in particular. He had covered most of his body in his blanket, but he had left his right arm out in the open. When John entered, he merely glanced at John for a second before returning to his meditation.

"I don't drink alcoholic beverages," he said nonchalantly.

"Neither do I. At least for the past few years," John said, standing next to the bed and watching the expressionless face. He stood there for a while as he counted the number of silver streaks in Sherlock's hair. The amount seemed to have doubled since the last time he counted, John noticed. There were also a few more wrinkles on his face.

"Sit," Sherlock said. It was not an order, but a request.

John was a bit surprised. He had not once sat on Sherlock's bed, let alone in his presence. For all these years, Sherlock had always kept his room private, a place where even his closest friend could not intrude upon. That didn't mean John hadn't entered on numerous occasions, but still the act of inviting John into his most personal place was something John didn't expect.

The bed was surprisingly soft. John always thought Sherlock slept on some super hard mattress as the whole body of him was so angular and rim-rod straight. He thought it was the result of sleeping on some surface that resembles the floorboard. Apparently he was wrong. As he always was when it came to Sherlock.

He shifted under the blanket until he was snuggling comfortably in the bed. He had kept a certain distance from Sherlock, giving him the space he needed. The last thing he wanted was to alarm Sherlock by moving closer than necessary.

Amber coloured liquid flowed into a small glass cup John had obtained from the flea market a year ago. He wasn't a drinker, but he loved it, and so he bought it, regardless of the sarcastic comments from Sherlock. It remained one of his small treasures he had put in the glass cupboard in the living room. Sherlock had scoffed at his sentiment, but John didn't care. At the end, it was useful.

Knuckles brushed together as Sherlock took the cup silently. John watched his eyebrows frowned slightly, knotted in the way it did whenever he saw John wore his blue stripped jumper. John didn't like the jumper much himself either, but sometimes he would wear it just to see the expression on Sherlock's face. For some reason, he liked to see that face. It was kind of cute, soothing, like watching a little boy frowning at vegetables. John treasured those moments.

Sherlock didn't like wine. John knew. But still, despite the frowning, he drank the whole cup in one gulp.

"It's... nicer than I expected," Sherlock said slowly, analysing the taste and memorizing every single detail of it.

"It is one of the best. I have no idea how Harry could afford it," John said. He turned the glass of Scotch in his hand for a few times, looking at the swirling fluid, and suddenly he was thinking of Harry, the crazy little girl who jumped around the house when he was still a young boy. That was so long ago, yet the memory was still so vivid. Happy times, he thought. He turned his head towards Sherlock, who was also looking at him.

"You are thinking of Harry."

John nodded. Five years. It seemed so long ago, yet it was also like it was yesterday when he walked into the funeral, not being able to think about anything but Harry.Time had flown by, and they were getting old.

He took the empty glass cup from Sherlock's hand and refilled, only drinking it himself this time. It was really good, he had to say. When he had finished it, he let out a sigh and let his arm fall uselessly on his side.

Without saying a word, Sherlock took the empty cup and poured the Scotch himself. He drank it again.

The night passed with the two men sitting on the bed, taking turns drinking the Scotch, until there was none of it left.

***

"Jawwwwwn," Sherlock moaned, flipping his body over as he uselessly dropped the empty cup onto the floor, resulting in a sharp clink of broken glass. But neither of them was now conscious enough to notice it, let alone clearing the mess up. Luckily John had the sense to put the Scotch bottle on the desk before he was too far gone.

"Mmmmm," John replied, mumbling into the pillow. His right leg was sprawled across the bed and his hands were slipped under the pillow. It was quite a comfortable position, and John soon started to snore.

"Jawwwwwwn," Sherlock said again, this time a little more petulantly, and he thrashed his hands against John's back in an attempt to get his attention.

"Shuup," John replied lazily and released one of his hands and used it to push Sherlock's arm away. "You are a 'nnoying dick."

Having met an obstacle in his attempt, Sherlock turned his body and splayed his left leg on top of John's leg. John liked the feeling of it, of having some hair rubbing against his leg. So he unconsciously moved his leg a little bit, trying to get some friction.

"I am an annoying dick," Sherlock announced grandly as he raised his middle finger in front of John's face. Finding it funny, he giggled.

Infected by Sherlock, John started giggling too. "I have a dick," he said in between his giggles. He snuggled a little bit closer to Sherlock.

"Interesting. I also have one," Sherlock said as he moved his palm upwards, lightly brushing the soft fabric of John's shirt as his fingers traced the curve of John's body.

"Mmm.... Mine's bigger," John mumbled. He grabbed Sherlock's hand softly as the long and nimble violinist fingers made their way to his cheeks.

“Your penis at its fully erect state has a length of 5.3 inches and a girth of 5.5 inches. Your penis girth is larger than mine by 0.6 inches, but mine is longer by 0.3 inches. Whether it constitutes as bigger is debatable,” Sherlock said as he tried to free his hand away from John’s grip and place his two palms together under his chin in his praying position. The attempt, however, was obstructed by John’s reluctance to let go.

“How you know,” John slurred and opened his right eye slightly, gazing at Sherlock. Several lines of wrinkles appeared on his forehead, and Sherlock couldn’t help but trace the horizontal lines with his free hand. “You peek at me,” he propped himself up with his elbow on the pillow and pointed at his own face, grinning and watching Sherlock as he did so, “in the shower?”

“Not my fault,” Sherlock flipped himself over in a huff, exposing his back to John. But he kept his leg on top of John’s. “You never lock the bathroom door.”

“Sorry,” John said, not realizing it was actually not his fault. He shifted closer to Sherlock and threw his right arm over the lean body. “Sorry,” he said again as he rests his forehead against the nape of his neck. It was comfortable and cosy, and John breathed in Sherlock’s soap-flavoured scent as he rubbed his hands lightly across Sherlock’s chest in small circles.

Sherlock involuntarily let out a contented sigh and relaxed into John's firm and strong arm. He felt protected and safe, being held close by his John, but there was also a feeling he couldn't point out that had been buzzing at the back of his mind, inundated by the headiness due to the alcohol.

The two grown men lied side by side in this spooning position for a while, enjoying the luxury of the moment, when John nuzzled into Sherlock's neck and pressed his body close to the bare back.

"Whazzdis," Sherlock queried sleepily as he felt something nudging him in between his cheeks. Something rod-like and hard and warm. He slipped his hand over and gently shook the snoring man's shoulder.

"Mmmmm..." was the man's reply.

"Jawwwwwwn," Sherlock rocked his shoulder more violently.

The snore stopped suddenly as the man regained part of his senses. "Sherlock?" He asked, slightly alert.

"What's the thing between my legs," Sherlock pouted petulantly.

"My throbbing dick," John said in his captain Watson's voice, pretending to be very serious, but bursted out in light giggles just seconds he had said it in his low and gruff voice.

"Move it out of the way. You are getting me hard," Sherlock protested and tried to push to clingy John Watson away.

"No," John said, and started to rut his hard, throbbing length along the cleft between the cheeks. "I am not moving away."

"Oh, yes," Sherlock gasped at the sudden friction. It felt nice, really nice, having a strong and warm John Watson cuddling him and rutting against his cheeks. "Oh god," he cried a little bit louder as he moved his hand to the front of his pants and cupped his obvious erection.

"Are you touching yourself?" John whispered in Sherlock's ears as he rutted harder.

"Yes, ahhh," He sighed as he continued to rub himself off. "John, touch me." He writhed under the mattress, seeking more friction between the two of them.

John obediently moved his hand downwards, splaying his hands across the clean and flat chest and feeling the lean muscles beneath his palm as he traveled south. Eventually he reached the wristbands of the undergarment, and wriggled his hand through until he was closing his fingers around the hot, slickly prick that was very hard indeed.

"Oh Jawwwwwn!" Sherlock moaned loudly as he thrusted upwards into the firm grip. The feeling of the rough and tight palm slidding around his aching, throbbing dick was so exquisite and wonderful that he had to put his hands into his undergarment immediately and pump John's hand up and down vigorously for a few times. He nearly cried out loud at the sheer pleasure of it.

"Oh fuck!" John said involuntarily as he heard the near pornographic noises produced from Sherlock's mouth. He felt his dick throb at the sound of it.

The two moved faster and faster, John rutting erractically against Sherlock, while Sherlock thrusted repeatedly into John's calloused palm. Their breaths were shorter and quicker, and Sherlock could feel John's heart practically beating on his bare back. It was dirty and messy and incredibly hot.

"Oh Jawwwwwn," Sherlock was practically shouting now, "I am going to..."

John felt the man gave one last, long thrust as the dick in his hand squeezed and spurted white hot cum all over his pant. The man writhed and wriggled, moaning nonsensible words as he climaxed and exploded. The feeling was so great and hot that John felt he was going to cum too.

"Oh fuck, Sherlock," he yelled as he increased the speed of his movement and thrusted his dick again and again into the cleft. The pleasure in his dick grew greater and greater until he finally shruddered and came in his pants hard, yelling obscene noises as he did so.

For a minute or so, the two just panted and huffed, allowing their heartrate to return to normal slowly. Then, without a signal, the two men collapsed into the bed at the same time with their limbs twisted together.

"I love you, John," Sherlock whispered, barely audible.

Exhausted and spent, they rubbed their hands together in slow movements before drifting into a deep and contented sleep.

***

 The next morning John woke up with a terrible headache. The first comprehensive thought he was able to make was "Fuck that headache", but it was not long before his brain was able to register the long and writhe naked body in front of him.

"What the f..." John threw away the blanket and jumped off the bed as quickly as he could once he realized he was not only sleeping with Sherlock, he was cuddling him.

The sudden movement had awaken Sherlock as he opened his eyes slowly and turned over. But he closed his eyelids again once he had turned. Apparently it was just a brief interruption to his sleep.

John decided to quickly leave the room before Sherlock could see him there. How had he got here, was he sleep-walking? He never knew he was a sleep walker, at least no one told him that, but it was not possible for one's physiology to change as one ages. He took a quick glance at Sherlock.

And there he was, an almost ethereal creature, lying there with his bare chest and with his eyelids closed. He almost glowed in the early morning sunlight seeping through the curtains, so young in his sleep. John's heart fluttered at the magnificent sight. 

And suddenly, perhaps it was the flutter of his heart, the memories of last night washed back at John in the form of broken pieces, like snapshots in a movie. Holding Sherlock in his arms, rutting against his cheeks, giving him a handjob as he climaxed, coming in his pants...

"Fuck," John rubbed his hand against his face as he realized what had happened. He leaned defeatedly against the doorframe, and slid down to the floor in a slow motion.

 That morning was spent in absolute silence. Neither of them talked, and it was thanks to the routine developed over the course of ten years that they had managed to do everything normally without communicating. They didn't even look at each other, and instead of flopping onto the sofa like he usually did, Sherlock sat in his airchair quietly.

John didn't know what it all meant, and what they would do. Could they work and live together normally ever after again for the rest of their lives? But more importantly was the message behind all these. Was he actually gay? Was the act just a sudden, primeval urge affected by alcohol? Would Sherlock be offended? Why did Sherlock ask him to.....

He sat up abruptly in his chair. He suddenly realized that Sherlock actually desired him, asking him to hold him.

So he pondered for a second before talking to the man who was now gazing intently into his laptop.

"Many years ago, when we first met, you said you are married to your work," John said conversationally, trying to sound normal, "Do..."

Sherlock abruptly cut him off, "I know what you are getting at. Last night was a mistake, enhanced by my long suppressed sexual desires and the alcohol content. It meant nothing. I am sorry if you feel offended by my actions." He closed his laptop with a slam and glared at John, "There, I apologized. Happy?"

"No," John said in his captain Watson voice, his arms crossing in front of his chest. "Don't lie to me Sherlock. It clearly wasn't nothing. I am not stupid you know."

Sherlock's breath hitched for a second but quickly returned to his normal cool demeanor, "I was not able to control my sentiment for you, John. It was an irrationality, a flaw in my brain. Therefore I don't want to talk about it." He rose swiftly and strided towards his bedroom.

John grabbed his arms, stopping him mid-track. "You said last night, before we fell back to sleep, that you love me." He looked into Sherlock's eyes fiercely.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as dramatic as possible, "John..."

But before he could finish his sentence, John had crushed his lips against his.

For a moment, Sherlock didn't know how to react. He just stood there, lips closed, feeling the gentle lips of John tracing around his and the stubbles brushing against his cheekbones. It was a soothing sensation, being kissed by John, and he didn't want it to end. His big brain was telling him to pull away, pull away, this was sentiment, it would ruin your logic, but for once, or perhaps the second time in his life, he could not control himself with rationality. Instead, after a few blissful moments, he finally gave in, opened his mouth, and kissed fiercely back.

For five minutes, the two middle-aged men just stood there, kissing, until both had run out of breath and had to break apart to refresh their oxygen supply.

"John," Sherlock breathed.

John cupped his chin with his right hand and looked up at him with his head tilted downwards. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"Jawn," Sherlock repeated stupidly, a hint of a smile appearing at the corner of his lips.

"You like my name, don't you?"

Lips crashed together as the two lost themselves in their kiss.

 

 

 

 


End file.
